


the sweetest hours that e'er i've spent

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Because of Reasons, M/M, basically angst, the whole of moominvalley is kind of a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 03:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: Snufkin had been away for 147 days. Moomin knew this because he kept track in a small book; he had done this forever. He also knew that the longest Snufkin had ever been away for was 116 days.On the 158th day, four things happened.





	the sweetest hours that e'er i've spent

Over the years, not much had changed in Moominvalley.

The sun came up every day, the flowers grew every spring. The water flowed downstream and the fish bit.

Folks in Moominvalley had grown up and gone away, but rarely changed.

Moomintroll had changed little over time, and neither had Sniff, or Snorkmaiden, or Little My. 

They were preserved pictures of a perfect childhood. They had more wits about them, but there was a naivete that came with living in Moominvalley, and it’s doubtful that that ever went away.

Snufkin had settled down.

That is to say, settled down as much as Snufkin could. That is to say, he had traded in a tent and campsite for a small stone house perched on a little island in the middle of a lake in the outskirts of Moominvalley. Every winter, he closed the shutters and packed up his few belongings and left the little house to get dusty and lonesome until he returned in the spring.

The island was small but tall, covered in scraggly cliffs and prickly bushes, and the little house was at the peak. Over the years it had become encased in vines and brambles, and Snufkin had never shown any interest in cleaning up. It had none of the cozy elements of the other houses in Moominvalley: no smoking chimney, no smell of delicious food cooking, no light beaming from the windows at night. The only sign of life that ever came from the little house was the smoke from the campfire he heated his kettle over. 

There was a small pathway from the island to the mainland made of ancient stones and moldy wooden planks, but it was rarely used. 

The little house wasn’t the only novelty in Moominvalley.

Snufkin had changed too.

Years of travel and adventure and misfortune had hardened him. 

Sarcasm had turned to cruelty, pessimism to cynicism, introversion to callousness. 

Snufkin rarely ventured off of the island, and few made the trek up to see him.

On gray days in the summer, Moomintroll ventured out to the tree by the bridge where he could covertly watch Snufkin sit on a large rock in the center of the lake, casting his fishing rod into the water. 

Snufkin and Moomin used to be friends. 

They used to be more than that; the absolute best of friends. They would go on adventures and share secrets and every winter, just before Moomin would lie down in his bed for his hibernation, he would make a wish up to the icy moon that Snufkin would be safe on his travels.

And when the first day of spring came around Snufkin would be waiting by the river, playing his mouth organ and eager to show off new scars and stories collected from his travels.

As years went by, Snufkin became more and more lenient about deadlines. He would leave early into the fall and often without goodbye. And Moomin would look up at that same white moon, watching the world coldly and unfeelingly, and he wouldn’t bother with wishing that Snufkin would be safe, for he knew that was useless, but for him to come back at all.

One year, Snufkin came back on the second day of spring, and Moominvalley was thrown into a panic. 

The next year he came back the third, then the fourth, then the seventh. 

And Moominvalley collectively decided it was better to stop worrying.

Over these seasons Moomintroll missed his friend, of course. 

But it wasn’t until Snufkin was truly gone that Moomin realized how much he truly loved him.

And oh, how it ached.

To have such a dear friend living so close, but who might as well have been dead.

To watch everyone else to move on and make new friends and find new loves but to be snarled in an old fishing line. 

To have the chambers of a heart twisted so badly that some days, it was impossible to make sense of it still beating.

It wasn’t as if Moominvalley had forgotten about Snufkin; that was very hard to do. It was very difficult to forget about someone like that. Sometimes, the lonesome tunes of his harmonica could still be heard floating on the breeze, but only on the days where the wind strained at the windowpanes and the rain beat so hard that the roof seemed in danger of collapsing. He played the same songs as he had in childhood, jigs turned to shanties turned to dirges.

It’s just that everyone else had moved on.

They didn’t want to think about Snufkin, the dark spot in idyllic Moominvalley. Like a thorn on a rose.

In the eyes of Moominvalley, Snufkin’s only redeeming quality was the berries.

There were all sorts of fruits that grew around Moominvalley, but there was a certain kind of berry that grew on Snufkin’s island that no one could get enough of. They were small and round, like a blueberry, but bright red, like a raspberry, and sweeter than anything eaten before. 

They only grew in the summer, and no one dared voyage to the island while Snufkin was in residence. 

So berries were solely gathered by foxes and young adventurers who reminded Moomin of himself and Snufkin. 

On the first day of spring, Moomin woke from hibernation to silence.

He had long gotten accustomed to no longer waking to the lilting strains of Snufkin’s mouth organ, but it had never gotten any less lonesome. 

On the second day of spring, the island was silent once more.

A month had passed, and there was no sign of life from the little stone house.

Snufkin had been away for 147 days. Moomin knew this because he kept track in a small book; he had done this forever. He also knew that the longest Snufkin had ever been away for was 116 days. 

Moominvalley was beginning to secretly hope that Snufkin would not be coming back.

The berries were exceptionally sweet that year.

Still, no one dared go near the island, just in case.

On the 158th day, four things happened.

Number one: Moomintroll woke up in the morning and looked out of his eastern bedroom window, as he did every morning. The tree below the window was in full bloom, but that was not what caught his eye. What Moomin did see was a gentle stream of smoke coming from the little house.

Number two: at breakfast, Moomin packed a lunch and told Moominmamma that he would be spending the day reading by the lake.

Number three: no one knows quite what happened during Moomin’s foray to the forest, but the Moominhouse woke up the next morning to a large burlap sack on the front porch; on the fabric, in familiar scrawl, were the words “FOR MY DEAREST MOOMINTROLL.” Inside the bag were the sweetest, reddest berries ever tasted.

Number four: it was a beautiful spring morning, and though there was not a cloud in sight, there was not one ear that day that did not stop and listen to the joyful melody of the mouth organ that seemed to be radiating from the little house like rays of sunshine from the face of a lovestruck wanderer who, like everyone else, was once a child.

**Author's Note:**

> hello all!  
> i hope this is good because truth time? i learned about moomins like, a day ago? so i know very little  
> also i feel bad for taking something so happy and making it... this? but i am Incapable of writing anything that isn't Painfully Mournful


End file.
